


ten thousand eyes and four hundred hands

by xshe



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-06-05 23:35:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6727861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xshe/pseuds/xshe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time her shield arm drops in the field, it takes Bull less than a second to act.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ten thousand eyes and four hundred hands

The first time her shield arm drops in the field, it takes Bull less than a second to act. He steps between her and her opponent with the innate grace that she has never been able to reconcile with his size. His axe comes down cleanly, his boot kicks the next bandit away – by then Evelyn's shield is back in the proper defensive position ( _the spear-fisher guard,_ she hears the chevalier barking in her mind, _used to recover from fatigue_ ) and it might as well have never happened. He doesn't mention it, but she knows he saw, and quietly hopes that he writes it off as inexperience, rather than incompetence. 

The second time happens much the same, but this time when the action calms, she feels a clap on the back that makes her stumble. 

“You ok, boss?” he rumbles at her, and she knows he isn't talking about her near fall. 

“Fine,” she replies as nonchalantly as possible, and from the way his eyes squint just a bit, he wants her to know he knows she's lying. It's a warning. _Don't bite off more than you can chew_. She looks away pointedly to hook her shield to her back before jogging after Varric. She doesn't make eye contact with him until they're around the fire that night, and all seems forgotten.

The third time, however, seems to be the breaking point. Evelyn is weak from combat, shaking. Unable to sustain the weight of her shield, she falters just for a second, but a second is all it takes for the dagger to flit past her guard. She's so momentarily disoriented by the thick sting and the flash of sun on blade she doesn't see Bull moving until he's already in front of her, crushing them aside with great sweeps of his axe. She steps back and lets her shield drop limply, feeling the sting of failure as keenly as the gash on her face. 

Cassandra makes eye contact with from behind a templar's shoulders; her eyes widen and she nods at Bull and bashes the templar towards him with her shield in a single movement. He stumbles back before Bull catches him around the knees with the inside of his axe and pulls him in, tripping him, and swoops around for an overhead attack, his arms a continuous flow. For a surreal moment, it reminds her of her watching her mother dance as a child, of the effortless flow of the rond-de-jambe and the port-de-bra that Evelyn could never get right. Then Cassandra is in her face, worried, crowding her back from the fight.

“Herald, are you alright?” Evelyn wants to snap at her, angry for reasons even she doesn't understand. She bites back the words before they even form – Cassandra is simply worried, after all - and reaches up to press against her face. It stings, but it's hardly deep. 

“I'm fine, Cassandra. It's shallow.” Cassandra visibly relaxes, and Evelyn needs to say something, an explanation, some justification, anything, “I don't know how he got past me.” 

Cassandra raises her brows for a moment, then chuckles and gestures to her own scar. “I understand.” Evelyn feels as if a huge weight has been lifted from her shoulders. It lasts until Bull leans down to her on the way back to camp. “When we get back, we need to talk.” he whispers, and suddenly the feeling comes back twice as strong. 

–

She's able to avoid Bull for the better part of two days. Exhaustion is good excuse, and works well even in a place as small as Haven. She intends on seeing how long she can continue this way, but he, of course, finds her first, casually leaning against the double Chantry doors as she files out of the war room. She's trapped. Damn him. Irritated beyond measure, she she stops a foot in front of him and looks up, saying nothing. Better to face him head on. Cullen looks curiously between them as he passes, before giving them a curt nod and smartly striding out. Damn him too. 

They stand there in silence, her fuming, and Bull waits until Leliana and Josephine close the Ambassador's door to break it. 

“I'm guessing now's a good time, boss?” Damn him thrice. 

“As good as any.” she says, stretching out the vowels just in case her annoyance isn't clear. 

“You don't want to have this conversation here.” he says, and she even her anger can't tamp down the dread that rises in her chest.

“Alright..." she trails off, and he looks expectant. "There's some rooms downstairs that are usually empty.” He nods, and gestures for her to lead, following and banging his horns on the hanging lights and swearing. He did it on purpose, she knows, to alleviate the tension, but it does not help the feeling of walking to her execution. Evelyn blindly pulls herself up onto a barrel with a false levity waits for him to speak. 

“You're going to die if you keep on like this.” 

Bull's attacks always strike true, and now is no exception. She bites her lip, and watches at the floor as she tries to will the sudden tears away. Somehow, his voicing it makes it feel more real. Her failure is obvious. She shakes her head, as if this last feeble attempt will change his mind and convince him of her legitimacy. 

“Hey.” He sets a heavy hand on her shoulder. “Look. I'm not one of your disciples. It's not going to destroy me to know you're just a person.”

His voice feels like freefall - like he's exposing a disgusting secret. She is supposed to be infallible, capable of anything through the Maker's invisible hands. Her thoughts must be obvious, because he picks up on it immediately.

“It's weird for you to hear that.” She nods, slightly less terrified and much more resigned. She can't stop this crumbling.

“It's bullshit. To them,” he vaguely gestures to the ceiling, “You came out of the fade a ready-made demigod. Transcendent. Limitless.” 

“Yes.”

“And you're not. And if you keep pretending you are, it's over. Everything. We - you, me, all of us - die.” 

She feels as empty beneath her skin, as if he's scooping out her insides and noting every defect. “I know.” She keeps her voice from cracking, at least. 

He nods, and unbelievably _smiles_ at her. “Good. If you know, than you can do something about it.” 

“Can I?” she mutters, and wipes her face with her hands. “I've got nothing of use to the Inquisition besides the mark. I'm no diplomat, and Maker knows I'm no champion.” In for a copper, in for a gold. “How am I supposed to lead an army of the faithful when I've no faith myself?”

“What do you have?” Bull looks thoughtful rather than acknowledging her crisis, and she's thankful. “What skills, I mean. Not faith.”

_Nothing_ , she wants to say. “In general?”

He shrugs his massive shoulders. “Let's work on fighting to start. Being alive comes first - you can work on the rest after. From what I've seen, your sword arm is pretty good. It's the shield that gets you.”

She nods, feeling a tiny, tiny spark somewhere in the deep, empty pit of her stomach. It's true, after all. “I'm not strong enough to maneuver it, much less absorb blows with it.”

“I see you training out there nearly every day. Not getting any better?”

“Some things...” she allows. “I can run faster, and for longer periods before I'm out of breath, and I've tripled the muscle exercises I started with. It's putting it in practice – the fighting itself. I don't have the stamina to keep up against man after man after man.” 

“There's other ways to fight than the front line. You any good with knives? Archery?”

She shakes her head.

“Nothing?” He asked? “Good at darts? Ballroom dancing?”

“No darts. Some ballet.” Then an idea, dredged up from a time of dance lessons and tagging along after her brothers. “I'm not bad with a swordstaff, actually.” Far fetched - but at least it's an answer. “It's the ceremonial weapon of House Trevelyan,” she offers at his raised brow. “It's... much like a greatsword with a short blade and long hilt, or a short spear with a long blade.” He nods, and makes an encouraging motion for her to continue. She's not sure what to add. “According to Cullen it's meant for horseback or for defending fortifications, not useful for close quarters at the least.” 

“So make it useful.”

She leans back against the wall, cautious, tentatively hopeful. This was something of hers, something she loved, something from a city and a life the Herald never touched. Yet - “I'm hardly equipped to argue with Cullen and Cassandra on tactical choices.”

She can tell from his face that Bull barely avoids rolling his eyes. “Cullen and Cassandra fight like building a wall, or playing chess. Brick by brick, piece by piece, careful measurements and strict rules. You said yourself you don't have the stamina for that.” She doesn't.

“Or the discipline.”

“I didn't say that.” 

She'd tried so hard to mirror Cassandra's restraint, Leliana's calm self-control. 

“You didn't have to.” 

Maker, how obvious had her charade been? Could it be that she was the only one setting these rules for herself? She was suddenly anxious in the face of such opportunity. 

How much could she get away with? Could Evelyn's lack of discipline exist side by side with the Herald of Andraste? Her likes? Her feelings? She wielded so much influence - could it be selfish to let her feelings influence her actions? 

_Did she really care anymore?_

“Look. Let's try what you do have, and if it doesn't fit, we'll try something new.”

She feels herself nodding, slowly. "It's worth a shot." 

He grins, jerks his head, and she slips from the barrel to follow Bull's broad back up to the surface.

**Author's Note:**

> OR: when you get lost in the dance routine and you look around the room desperately to figure out what to do just on a bigger scale
> 
> it'd be really fucked up to go from being a obscurity to hanging out with a bunch of ripped tryhards. 
> 
> i gave up on the ending


End file.
